Shades of Winterfell
by Gr8BigNerd
Summary: From Ch. 7: It had been he who reached for her. He invited this. She was giving him a chance to explain himself—to make her understand—he saw his love, not as a gift, but as a sword: a weapon wielded to cut down the objects of his desires. His love was not a thing to be coveted by anyone, for it would only bring them pain, and torment and death.
1. Chapter 1: Winter, Tyrion

**Shades of Winterfell**

Winter ~ Tyrion

And so it goes. Bran the Broken accepted his crown and it was done. With their new ruler would come a new, more enlightened age for Westeros—lords and ladies, kings and queens, and commoners alike—the world would be better. The council asked what Tyrion thought, and when he named Bran, they didn't laugh. This wise council wanted Bran—some because they thought it best to name a man with no desires or ambitions, some because they didn't understand him or what he was and therefor feared him. Others thought he was weak and saw him as someone who could be easily controlled or overthrown. Those, Tyrion saw plain and knew they would be the ones to watch.

When Bran named Tyrion his hand, it was not meant as a reward or any sort of high honor. Tyrion was once a brilliant politician—he knew how to read people and he loved to play the game. When the game was worth playing. When the stakes were high. When he still believed he could affect some good in the world.

And of course, when his rulers where not all seeing, all knowing, magical beings. But now the life he was consigned to would be one of drudgery and loneliness. Fixing what he'd broken.

Days had passed since the Great Council, and the lords and ladies of Westeros were beginning to disperse, heading back to their own little corners of the world. When word came that the khalasar would make for Vas Dothrak and the Unsullied too would depart for the south, there was a collective breath of relief. This uneasy alliance would go on, but from afar, and the Dothroki would never again cross the Narrow Sea. Tyrion helped see Jon Snow—the name he was given and the name he chose to keep—off to the wall, with a half-promise to see him again. It was a small blessing to be rid of him as well. For Tryion, to even look at Jon was to be reminded of what they had done—the queen they both loved and the queen they both conspired to murder. Jon wondered if what they did was right. Tyrion knew it could be no other way, but his heart was broken all the same.

Tyrion had been given Casterly Rock, of course. He was the last living Lannister and it was his birthright. His in name only, of course; King's Landing was to be his home now. That is, once he attended to one final bit of business.

He stepped into the sept, his head low and fists clinched tight at his sides. Sparse light from candles lining the walls illuminated their bodies, which lay side-by-side in the middle of the ornate room, as the Silent Sisters were preparing their dressings for transport. The bodies of his siblings had been housed here for weeks, but Tyrion decided that they didn't belong in King's Landing—he was going to take them home.

When he saw them, wrapped head to toe in dark linens, he clutched his chest as the breath left his body and he stumbled to a nearby pew and fell into it. He felt a sob rise in his chest but choked it back. He remembered how he'd embraced his brother on that last night. Had he known then that sending him to rescue their sister was sending him to his death? Jamie might still be alive if Tyrion had left him in chains. He pressed his palms into his eyes and winced. What a useless little lecher he turned out to be.

"Lord Tyrion," came a soft voice behind him. Tyrion's head snapped up and he swiped at his cheeks as he stood from the pew and turned to face Sansa Stark, and a pace behind her, Brianne of Tarth.

Sansa regarded him for a moment and then turned her head to Brianne asking her to give them a moment. Brianne's eyes were fixed on Jamie, but she nodded dutifully and stepped out of the sept.

"Forgive me, my lady." Tyrion said, his eyes still stung and his face blushed. "I am so used to having to seek you out; I was not expecting you to come looking for me. How can I serve you?"

Sansa took several steps toward him and slid into the pew, beckoning him to sit beside her and he did. They sat in silence for several long moments. Tyrion didn't know what to say to her. She hated Cersei as he did, but she also understood how difficult and confusing and demanding familial love could be.

It was Sansa who broke the silence. "I said goodbye to Jon this morning," she said as if reading his thoughts. "I hope sending him away was the right choice."

Tyrion chanced a glance at her. "Do you regret that Jon is not the king?"

"No," she said in that confident, disinterested tone, "Jon would not have made a good king."

He gaped at her, "but you used what you knew about his true identity to manipulate me into…"

"There needed to be the hope, the prospect of someone else. It didn't have to be him, but I wanted you to believe it could be someone, anyone else."

"And Varys lost his life for it."

Sansa pulled her lips together and looked down to meet his eyes. "At Winterfell I told you that your queen would come between us." Tyrion's eyes widened. He was too raw, too full of remorse to speak of Daenerys right now. "You and Jon couldn't reach her in time to stop the slaughter of this city, but you've saved millions. I hope you know that."

Tyrion's pulse quickened. He scanned the sept, looking anywhere but at her. "I'd love to tell you that I don't regret it."

Sansa surprised him by taking his hand in hers. He looked between them where her delicate fingers gripped his. "You've lost so much," she said and then she brought his hand to her lips, "but you haven't lost everything, my Lord."

Tyrion closed his eyes again and shook his head. He wanted to weep, but he wouldn't. Not here, not now. Mercifully, she released him, and stood up, smoothing out her dress. He followed her lead and stood.

"I suppose you're for Winterfell now?" He said softly. He rubbed a thumb over the back of his hand, where her kiss still hummed.

She nodded, "I don't have many fond memories of King's Landing; my place is in the north."

Tyrion felt a pang—part of her time in King's Landing was married to him. Not the best of marriages, he'd admit, but, as Sansa had alluded in the Winterfell crypts, it wasn't the worst—for either of them. "And then I suppose we'll call you Queen of the North before too long."

Sansa clasped her hands behind her back—she already had a response prepared for this question. "The lords of the north will choose their own ruler. If they call for me to serve, I hope I will do them justice."

Tyrion stared up at her. "You are a remarkable woman, Sansa. Probably the smartest I've ever known, truth be told."

"I bet you never imagined that to be the case when we were married," she allowed him a small smile. She was being gentle with him—he couldn't help but feel she was working him somehow, but he was too fraught at the moment to be suspicious of her.

"Honestly, no. You were a child then and you were scared. But you were always so strong, and the fact that you survived my sister, and Joffery and Little Finger and…" he didn't name Ramsey Bolton—he couldn't say for sure if she really did survive all that.

She stared hard at Cersei's body. "Your sister and the rest," she said, "they taught me many lessons. They opened my eyes to what the world can be when evil rules. I can play their games, but I'm not like them," she looked away from Cersei and stepped toward Tyrion. "And neither are you, my lord." She stepped around him and walked to the door of the sept and then turned back. "Brianne will accompany you to Casterly Rock to lay your brother and sister to rest. Then she will return to King's Landing. She will serve the new king however you see fit. My gift to the realm."

Tyrion was started by this. "Lady Brianne is your protector—"

"Lady Brianne is a knight and a trusted friend," she said, "I have more than enough protectors in the north; she wants to be where her talents are more useful—I can't blame her for that." She regarded him for a moment and then, "Goodbye, Lord Tyrion."

He stared after her blankly as she turned back toward the door. "Goodbye, Lady Stark," he choked. Sansa paused but did not turn around. She nodded to Brianne and then walked out of the sept.


	2. Chapter 2: Winter, Sansa

**Chapter 2: Winter ~ Sansa **

Shortly after she returned to Winterfell there was a raven from Brianne—a thank-you for allowing her to accompany Tyrion back to Casterly Rock to bury Jamie. It was difficult, Brianne admitted, but she needed to be there. She found peace with his death, with what he meant to her and what she meant to him.

_Lord Tyrion was very kind_, she wrote, _and he spoke sweetly of you_. And then Brianne promised to be at Sansa's side should she ever need her. Two of the people Sansa trusted most in the world together in the capitol. Another at the Wall and another on a ship sailing gods know where.

Sansa was crowned Queen of the North. And then almost immediately the marriage proposals began. Her Queen's Council all agreed—she must marry.

Even if the North is at peace, even if they are sovereign and free to choose their ruler, and even if she found the idea of being sold into marriage again revolting—allegiances and stability are preserved through the joining of houses. That will never change. Negotiations began in earnest and every noble house in the north put up their heir as the shining prospect of Sansa's future happiness and the North's enduring greatness. She accepted the inevitability of her needing to marry, but she pushed it off. She wanted to rebuild; she wanted to replenish their stockpiles—it was brilliant in a way—all of these noble lords falling all over themselves to restore Winterfell to it's prior glory and battling over who might contribute more to the North's food caches.

Eventually though, the snow started to subside. This winter was short and the spring would soon warm the air. It could wait no longer they agreed—she needed to make a choice.

The Queen's Council gathered in the great hall. Representatives from the northern houses—what was left of them now, after so, so many deaths—lined the room and debated this lord and that lord, and the benefits of this match and that match.

"What if I marry someone from the south?" she wondered aloud, disrupting the council's back-and-forth. They all stopped and turned to her, mouths agape.

"Your Grace?" said Howland Reed. "Why? We are no longer a part of the seven kingdoms—what would possibly come from that?"

Sansa had not really thought this through before blurting it out, and wondered to herself what prompted the thought. _Tyrion?_ She answered herself, and then shook the thought away. The moment they shared in the sept before she returned to the north had affected her; she found herself returning to that moment, to any number of moments really…whenever they were alone, she could be honest. When she let herself, that is. Even though she'd used him, rejected him, hurt him-he never held anything against her and she never felt the need to be guarded with him. All she knew now was that she didn't want to marry any of the little lords in her hall, and she was quite finished with the way they were trying to trade her around the north like property. "Protection," she answered. "We no longer benefit from the King's Peace. If we were to be invaded, Bran has no obligation to aid us."

"You should be marrying a Northman-everyone would revolt if you married outside of the northern houses. You're the King's sister," argued Cley Cerwin, "He wouldn't allow an invasion."

"Wouldn't he?" Sansa asked. "King Bran is not beholden to House Stark anymore." She did not mean for those words to come out bitter, but they did. "How many houses have we lost to these wars, my lords? How many castles sit unoccupied because the houses that have ruled them for centuries are extinct? We need to consolidate the remaining houses in the north, bind ourselves through marriages between those houses and rebuild, yes. But we also need support from the south—an alliance that sends the message that the north is still a friend to the realm."

"Would you leave Winterfell then?" Cerwin asked, crestfallen.

"Gods, no!" Sansa responded—she really hadn't thought this out. "I need a political match, not a romantic one. We'd need to live together long enough to," she stammered, "produce children and on occasion we'd need to attend events, but…"

"And do you have a certain southern lord in mind Your Grace?" Came Meera Reed from the far end of the room.

Sansa tilted her head and the other lords and ladies around the table leaned in. In truth, when she closed her eyes and tried to picture her future husband, all that came to mind was the first—the only one who never hurt her or used her to his own ends The one who might have come to love her, if things had gone differently. "No," she lied, "but I'm sure the lot of you could come up with someone." She pushed herself from the table at the front of the room and stood. "Not Gendry Baratheon," she said. "Nor Robin Arryn. And no one from the Iron Islands—they'd be looking for someone to go against the realm for them, and I won't do that." She stepped down to where the rest were gathered and moved to exit, but when she reached the door she stopped and turned back to them. "Oh!" she said, "I know who it should be."

* * *

A/N: Thanks to those who are reading-I'll post another chapter tonight and I'd love to hear what you think!


	3. Chapter 3: Spring, Tyrion

**Chapter 3: Spring ~ Tyrion**

"Sansa? Is…engaged to be married?" Tyrion let his arms fall to his side, the parchment fell to the floor and he leaned his head back in his chair. His new Master of Whispers had not let him down yet, but this bit of news had him wishing she had. "To whom?"

Arya leaned against the closed door to his chambers. This room was smaller than the old Hand's chambers, but nicely furnished and far more functional. Bran the Broken had the Red Keep torn down and in it's place stood a modest tower that echoed a godswood tree—open, knowing. Construction was not yet complete, but it was all coming together really nicely. Bran's three-eyed-raven sigil decorated the top floors and the bottom level was an open plaza designed for merchants, craftsmen and scholars. "The Price of Dorne," Arya said. She twirled her fingers around the hilt of her dagger.

"What?!" Tyrion jumped from his chair. His reaction would've been outrage no matter who she named, but the new crowned prince of Dorne was, by most accounts, handsome and kind and fierce—_she always liked the pretty ones,_ Tyrion though bitterly. "That is just…" Arya rose her eyebrows and Tyrion frowned. "Really smart, actually." Dorne is a solid ally to the new King and a valued member of the small council, but it had not been so long ago that, like the North, Dorne had been an independent land. Their wealth and resources would be enough to make the kingdom think twice before ever making a move against the north. And with the Starks connected to the Prince of Dorne, the independent north would again have influence over any of the realms affairs.

"That's what I thought," Arya said. "She really is a very good politician. And the Prince is quite dashing, I think." Tyrion poured a glass of wine and gestured to Arya to have one but she shook her head. "I'm leaving within the hour," she said. "No one else knows, but the prince will be traveling to Winterfell come summer."

"Did your sister tell you this?" Tyrion asked her.

She shook her head, "I haven't spoken to her—though I suspect I'll be heading back soon for the wedding."

Tyrion seethed. "Then how—"

"I told you, a little bird told me," Arya said. Tyrion frowned. Varys' little spies had disbursed when he was killed. He'd tried to locate them, to learn their secrets, but with no success. "Do you know what he did to them?" Arya asked, referring to the birds. "He cut out their tongues as babes and taught them to speak in words only he understood. Until I made them think that I was him, and that he was magic." She shook her head. "Being your spy master is actually more lucrative than…other ways of making money. Speaking of…"

Tyrion, still shook over the news of Sansa's engagement, reached into the desk and pulled out a coin purse. "You know, a bit of sisterly council might go a long way in stopping this madness. Anything else?" he asked her.

She took the coin and pocketed it. "Yes," she said, "If you sail far enough to the west you find yourself on the other side of the Shadow Lands. The dragon is there."

Tyrion's head snapped to attention. "You should have led with that," he said, "Your brother will want to know."

"I already told him," she said. "He's looking there now. "

Tyrion tossed his hands in the air, "There is a little thing called the chain of command, you see, information should flow in an upward direction—"

"Also, Yara Greyjoy is making plans to sails for Winterfell. She should arrive there just before the Prince." Arya opened the door and glanced around the room. "The city looks much better than the last time I was here," she said. And then she was gone.

* * *

Bran sat still, his eyes ghost white. Tyrion fidgeted uncomfortably in a nearby chair and Brianne hovered over the king's shoulder. "How long has he been like this?" he asked her.

"Well over an hour," she said, "he spends more and more time out of his body like this. It makes me worry."

"They say that skinchangers take on traits of the animals they possess the longer the inhabit them. What do you suppose a crippled king with the personality of a dragon might be like?" Tyrion wasn't looking at Brianne, and she didn't bother to answer.

In that moment, Bran slammed back into his body, gasping and shivering. Brianne held him and Tyrion stood to be close. "Your Grace?" Brianne said, her voice pitched.

Bran closed and then opened his eyes several times. "I'm okay," he said. He noticed Tyrion in the room and nodded at him. "Arya told you about Drogon." Tyrion nodded. "I found him. He is…still grieving—like you."

Tyrion drew his brow together. He'd learned not to be unnerved by the truths that Bran couldn't seem to control, though sometimes he wished the king would keep certain truths to himself. "There's talk of sorcerers that could bring her back to life."

"I've seen nothing like that. She is dead and will remain so. But Drogon is alone in the world now—that could be dangerous."

Tyrion didn't know what to say to that. He remembered the feel of the giant creature's hot breath on his face. He was cautious with him, but never felt in danger. He was stupid and naive—of course he was in danger. Just because he loved Dani did not mean that Drogon loved him. Bran pulled him back, "I have heard Sansa Stark is to marry." Bran was detached as always but there was something else in his voice—curiosity maybe, maybe the hint of a scheme. "How do you feel about that?" he asked Tyrion.

Tyrion stared at the ground. He suddenly felt Brianne's eyes on him. "I think it could be trouble for the realm, Your Grace. Having the North too cozy with Dorne—"

"Do you love her?" Bran's expression did not change, but Brianne smiled a little and avoided Tyrion's gaze.

Tyrion balked. "I-I care for Sansa of course. She was my wife, and—"

"You and Sansa never consummated your marriage. By law it was voided, and she was wed to Ramsey Bolton." Tyrion's face burned at the mention of Sansa's rapist-captor as her husband, but also at the reminder that, no, he never bedded his wife.

"Ramsey Bolton is dead," he said.

"Making her a widow, and free to marry anyone she chooses. She didn't choose you." Bran still looked far into the distance, speaking to Tyrion, but not at Tyrion. "But you don't want her to marry another man. Is it jealousy?"

Tyrion looked up at Brianne and wished the knight was not here in this moment. Do they still write to one another? Will she share his confessions with Sansa? "Matters of the heart are…complicated, Your Grace…"

"Yes," he said, "I recall that." Bran closed his eyes again. "I need to rest. You and Lady Brianne will leave for Winterfell. You will congratulate the Queen in the North on her upcoming nuptials and offer the best wishes of the realm. Once the wedding date is set, I will join you there."

Tyrion shook his head. The day he wished Sansa well with another man in another strategic marriage would be the day he through himself off the edge of The Wall. "Your Grace, someone needs to be here in the capitol to rule and Lady Brianne is your personal guard—"

"Neither of you are irreplaceable." Bran said without emotion. He closed his eyes and turned his chair toward the window. "You have your orders."

* * *

_Lady Sansa— I hope this letter reaches you before it is too late_

_To the Queen of the North— The realm has received word of your intended…_

_My Dearest Sansa— Stop this insanity. _

At every draft, Tyrion crumpled the parchment and tossed it aside. He ran a hand over his face, and dipped the quill.

_Your Grace— I ride for Winterfell in two days with Lady Brianne. The King will follow shortly thereafter. It will please me to see you again. Tyrion. _

Tyrion rolled the parchment and sealed it with the Hand's stamp. He walked to the door and handed the message to a servant, who would take it to the Maester, who would fix it to a raven, who would fly to Winterfell and there it will find it's way to Sansa's delicate hands. She would read his words and she would either be suspicious of him (rightly so) or she'd smile in the beautiful way she did, and she would understand, better than Tyrion, exactly why the King was sending him north. And she'd have none of it.


	4. Chapter 4: Spring, Sansa

**Chapter 4: Spring ~ Sansa**

"Make sure there are lots of candles in Lord Tyrion's bed chamber," Sansa directed the servants as she moved through the castle. "And extra pelts—he gets cold in the night." A glace was exchanged between Sansa's handmaid and one of the servants.

"Yes, m'lady," was the only reply before he scurried away.

Meera Reed caressed the table in the great hall with the tips of her fingers. "You're making quite a fuss over the little Lannister," she said.

Sansa gave her a cross look, "Lord Tyrion is Hand of the King, and as for being a Lannister…well, most of the Lannisters are gone, the worst of them anyway, so that doesn't mean much anymore, does it?"

"Is the King coming as well?" Meera asked, her eyes growing sad. Before Sansa could answer, the maester stepped into the entryway.

"Pardon, Your Grace," he said gesturing to the south. "The Lord Hand and his party have been sighted on the King's Road."

Sansa's eye grew wide, "Already?" She looked down at her dress—modest for a queen but fitting enough. There wouldn't be time to change, so it was no matter. Sansa beckoned the maester to gather the rest of her household to the courtyard.

Within the hour Tyrion, Brianne ,and a small party of soldiers reached the gates. Tyrion sat atop a grey mare with a white mane and as he entered the castle's courtyard he spotted Sansa immediately. A stable boy ran up to Tyrion's horse and sat a raised wooden block next to him. In unison Tyrion and Brianne dismounted and approached Sansa. They both dropped to one knee and Sansa extended her hand out to Tyrion. He took her hand in his and kissed her fingers chastely, as one would kiss a queen. Not for the first time since she received word of his coming, it occurred to Sansa that she longed for a kiss that was altogether different.

He rose and Brianne and the others followed his lead. Sansa and Tyrion looked at one another, their eyes met and their gaze lingering.

"Lord Hand," she said, "You surprise me. We weren't expecting you for several more days at least."

"I rode hard," Tyrion smirked at her, and Sansa smiled in spite of herself.

She turned to Brianne and her grin deepened. "My friend, it is so good to see you."

"And you, Your Grace." Brianne was ever the proper and honorable knight, but her excitement to be in Winterfell with Sansa again was plain on her face.

Sansa turned to the servants. "Our guests have had a long journey. Please show them to their chambers. We will feast at sundown."

"Your Grace," Tyrion said reaching out a hand toward her, "we aimed to reach Winterfell before it was overrun with all my many northern admirers." Snickers from the courtyard. Tyrion glanced around and then back up at Sansa. "I would speak with you in private," he said softly. Sansa held his eyes again and then nodded toward her servants and turned back toward the castle, beckoning him to follow her.

She led him, not to her private quarters, but to a library off of his own guest chambers with a great window overlooking the expanse of the castle below. To the east was the godswood tree and its crimson leaves, dusted with snow. Sansa shut the door behind him and sat at a small table in the far corner of the room, watching as Tyrion took in the sight of the newly restored Winterfell, and remembering, she imagined, the state it was in when he last looked down upon it, standing on the ramparts urging her to give his queen a chance.

Once he'd had his fill of the view, he turned to her and their eyes met for the third time. He drew his brows together and searched her face. Sansa had perfected the gambler's gaze-no one could read anything on her face that she did not want them to, and in this moment she refused to betray what she'd hoped would bring him here, not until she could trust that she understood it better. "Fuck it." Tyrion shook his head and walked up to her—with his small hand to her cheek he pulled her to him and pressed his lips down on hers.

When she didn't immediately push him away and call for her guards, Tyrion deepened the kiss. His hand slipped to the back of her neck and she braced her hands against his chest. A whimper escaped her, and Tyrion sucked in a deep breath, his lips now millimeters from hers, but he did not pull away. He slid his thumb across her cheek and rested his forehead against hers. "I've dreamt for years what it would be like to really kiss you," he whispered. "Dreams cannot even compare."

Sansa smiled into his mouth, but then pulled back slightly. "You are very bold, sir. Coming into a queen's house and taking liberties that way. More so since I very soon may be engaged."

Tyrion dropped his hand pulled back to look at her. "Yes," he said. "I'd heard as much."

"Is that why you've come here?" She asked. He hadn't moved away and she still had one hand resting against his chest. She felt his heart hammer underneath his shirt.

"I'm here because my King bade me come and offer you the best wishes of the realm," he paused. "Though we had heard that the engagement was official…that you '_soon may be engaged_' is actually an interesting development."

Sansa shrugged. "The prince is an acceptable prospect—but my countrymen would need to embrace him first and—that could be difficult."

"Sansa—"

"He'd be an ideal match actually. It makes a lot of sense in a way."

Tyrion rolled his eyes and paced a hand on either side of her face, "Don't do it," he pleaded.

Sansa jerked her chin. "And why not?"

"You don't want to marry another man you don't like—you think it's expected of you, but you don't have to wed to be a good ruler."

"That's incredibly naive of you—I believe you're actually jealous."

"I most certainly am," he admitted. "But that doesn't change the fact that it's a bad idea. You're a grown woman now. You don't have to bend to the will of men who made up these traditions a thousand years ago."

"Who's to say I wouldn't be happy with the prince. Dornish men have a way about them—he could have a lot to teach me," she mused with a simple smile.

Tyrion raged inside. "You're just saying that to hurt me."

"I just want us to speak true with one another. Do you want me for yourself?" She raised an eyebrow at him and he ran a finger down her long pale neck.

"You are a queen, and I'm—"

"the God-of-Tits-and-Wine?" She was recalling the drunken diatribe he let loose at their wedding feast so many years ago, but Tyrion only thought of Varys and it pained him.

"Not for some time now actually," he twirled a tendril of her hair between his fingers, until Sansa placed a hand on his and pushed him back.

"That's a shame," she said, "but you didn't answer my question." She stood, meaning to step away but he grabbed her hand, spinning her and pulling her back to him. Her fingers tangled into the curls of his head and he buried his face against her skirts. His hands moved to her hips and he gripped her in a hug that suggested, if she let him, he might never let go. She sucked in a breath as he planted a hard kiss against her pubic bone and nipped at the fabric. He was intoxicated with the smell of her. "I've always wanted you," he whispered roughly.

Sansa felt drunk. No one was more surprised than she was that this turned out to be the man that could bring her back from all the horror and hardness she'd seen in her short life. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling his face up until he was looking at her. "Could you love me, Tyrion?" She asked. "I'd go against all of them to be yours if you can say that you might."

Tyrion opened his mouth to tell her—of course he loved her. But he stopped himself. He struggled to find the words that would save her from herself. Save her from him. "I've been in love before," he said finally, "It doesn't work for me."


	5. Chapter 5: Summer, Tyrion

**Chapter 5: Summer ~Tyrion**

The wet spring days slid into a cool summer. The snow started to thaw.

On the day Tyrion arrived at Winterfell, he lost control of himself. He had thought of Sansa often since their marriage, mostly as a regret. YEs, she was beautiful Yes, he had wanted her. Not only in his bed, but he'd wanted her to open herself to him. They had a glimmer of a life that could have been good to them both, but he was who he was and she hated him for it. He vowed to protect her-that was his one great failing. He admired her for what she had become, in spite of, not because of him.

When Sansa's sister brought news of her impending wedding, he was shocked by how much this hurt him. On the road to Winterfell he dreamt of her. And it was a lucky thing that he had as much restraint as he did when he met her again face-to-face, that he didn't pull her down into the snow with him right there in front of the gods and men. He had kissed her though. And then immediately broke her heart. Sansa didn't cry, she didn't beg for him. She nodded coolly and said to him, "Then you will remain silent on the topic of my marrying. Understood." Tyrion's heart lurched—he wanted to explain, wanted to take it all back. But she was outside of his reach now.

"Since you're here," she'd said, "there is something that you can help me with." _Anything_. "Help me to tell my friends from my enemies," she'd said.

"Sansa…" he'd pleaded with her, his head tilted and his eyes fraught.

She cut him off. "I mean it. I'll not hear another word." And she walked away. And that was it. The next day she'd come to him with a note that had arrived from Pyke shortly before Tyrion arrived from King's Landing. She was as she'd always been with him—polite, intelligent, strong— in the past several days she even allowed him a smile, but there was a distance. Sansa would not open herself to him again.

Yara Greyjoy and a company of Iron Born made for Winterfell and, soon after, the Prince of Dorne would follow. His name was Quentyn Martell, he was the youngest son to Prince Doran and by most reports, very like him in both appearance and temperament. Tyrion had met him only briefly in the Dragon Pit when Bran was crowned, but he was gone nearly as quickly and quietly as he'd come.

It made Tyrion uneasy that these two houses, the Greyjoys and the Martells, both under Bran's rule of the Six-Kingdoms, both formerly sovereign lands, and both at one time pledged themselves to Daenerys Targaryen, would be coming here now—to Winterfell, the lone holdout, the one kingdom that refused to bend. It felt dangerous.

Tyrion sat alone in the library, the windows open. He'd written to Bran regarding his concerns and asking the king when he should return to the capitol. The reply Tyrion received that morning was simply: _–I trust you will right all wrongs. Please don't forget to tell me when Sansa Stark has set a date for her wedding. I will come then.-_

Tyrion folded the small parchment several times and placed it between the pages of the book he was reading, _a History of the Godswood._ He placed his head in his hands and pulled at the tufts of hair that hung in his face. He could not believe how royally he'd fucked everything up. _I trust you to right all wrongs_, Bran had written. Tyrion laughed to himself.

A knock at his door pulled Tyrion out of his self-pity and the servant Sansa had assigned to him peeked in. "Apologies m'lord. The queen wishes you to know that her guests are nearing the castle and the queen waits in the courtyard." The boy's name was Lot, the child of a whore who'd left him in Winterfell years ago and never returned.

"Thank you, Lot. Please tell the queen I am on my way." The boy nodded and shut the door. _Please don't forget to tell me when Sansa Stark has set a date for her wedding. I will come then._ Tyrion took a deep breath and shook his head. He pulled on his overcoat and fastened the buttons over his chest, and then slid a cloak around his shoulders and headed to the courtyard.

Sansa stood at the gate awaiting the Greyjoy party, Brianne at her side. As Tyrion approached, he noted the close and easy way the two women spoke with one another, the hushed confidence they shared. It occurred to him then how lonely Sansa must be up here now. Her family had left her, the Northmen loved and respected her, that much was clear, but she had no intimates here. Tyrion hated himself. Had she been so starved for touch, for closeness…?

He stood several feet behind the two women with the rest of the household and the other Northmen who'd come to welcome the Iron Islanders.

"I heard Balon Greyjoy's bastard was making a play for rule of the Iron Islands," came a whispered voice near Tyrion. He didn't move but strained to hear.

"Those fish fuckers don't like taking orders from a woman—no surprise there." Came the reply and chortled laugher. "Still, it is curious that Lady Yara would come here instead of going to her king for help." There were murmured agreements, and Tyrion furrowed his brow. Yes, he agreed silently—that is curious.

"Lord Tyrion," Sansa pulled Tyrion out of his head when she turned to see him standing behind her. She looked lovely in a long dark grey gown with a black hood and cloak, dire wolves stitched onto the neck and on her petite crown.

"Your Grace," Tyrion responded with a slight bow.

"I didn't see you in the great hall this morning," she said, "I hope we didn't wake you."

"No, Your Grace," he said, "I had a raven from King's Landing I needed to attend to."

"Anything I should know about?"

Tyrion paused, and cleared his throat. "The King inquires about his sister's wedding date."

An angry grimace flashed across Sansa's face, but was quickly replaced with her usual cool countenance. "I suppose we'll find out soon enough," she said, and then quickly turned away. Brianne leaned in to see if she was alright, but Sansa waved her off.

* * *

Two hours later Sansa, Tyrion, Brianne and Yara Greyjoy were seated around a large table in a small hall connected to Sansa's quarters. Yara had arrived with only a ten-man crew and all but four, plus a servant girl named Raya, had stayed behind at their ship.

"Thank you for indulging me a private meeting, Your Grace," Yara said glancing around the table. "Well, mostly private."

"You didn't think we'd let the queen meet with you alone?" came Brianne. "State your business here," she snapped.

Yara blinked at the large woman and smiled. "Last I understood, the two of you," she wagged her finger between Tyrion and Brianne, "were in the service of another ruler. Is my information out of date? Was the queen running short of northern protectors? Or are you no longer enjoying your independence?"

"Careful," Sansa said. "You are a welcomed guest in my home, but you come here with a great deal of mystery, Lady Yara. My friends are naturally concerned."

Yara nodded and placed her hands flat on the table in front of her. "It's just that what I have to tell you is somewhat sensitive. Your friends have conflicted interests."

Sansa exchanged a look with Tyrion. She pressed her lips together and then back at Yara. "Speak freely, My Lady. You can trust all at this table."

Yara gave a hesitant nod. "My bastard brother, Joron Pyke, is conspiring to retake the Iron Islands," she said. "He is quietly building forces to overthrow me. Once I'm dead he plans to declare himself King of the Iron Islands."

Tyrion shook his head, "Forgive me my lady, but your people are becoming quite known for your rebellions."

"Known for losing them, you mean?" Yara shot back at him, and Tyrion shrugged. "Joron knows that. He's trying a different strategy this time."

"Which is?" Sansa asked. She stood and paced around the table behind Tyrion and Brianne. "And why aren't you appealing to your king for help. Why come to me?"

Yara looked down at her hands on the table. "We are a proud people, Your Grace. Much like the North. We ruled ourselves in sovereignty for centuries. The Iron Born don't sow. They won't ever kneel to an outside king. I pledged myself to the Dragon Queen because she promised to respect the Old Ways. To let us live independently. When she went cocking mad, like Targaryens do, and burned King's Landing I knew that would never happen."

Tyrion tensed and squeezed his hands into a fist in his lap. Sansa noticed the muscles in his face twitch and she rested a hand on his shoulder. To Yara she said, "You pledged yourself to Daenerys Targaryen, and when she died, you said aye to Bran as the new king. You did not declare your independence—if it meant that much to you, you would have. Now Bran is your king and if there are traitor's in your house, he is the one to call upon."

"The Iron Born are proud, Your Grace," Yara said again. "They don't respect Kings or Queens—not even their own if she doesn't earn it. They only respect strength and right now Joron is promising them their freedom—but he has to show his strength first."

"And he does that by killing you?" Tyrion asked, having regained himself.

"No," Yara said, "Not yet anyway." She nodded to Sansa, "he does that by killing her."


	6. Chapter 6: Summer, Sansa

**Chapter 6: Summer ~ Sansa**

Sansa startled, as Tyrion and Brianne jumped from their chairs. "Take her!" Tyrion ordered Brianne who already had her sword out of its sheath. Yara flung her hands in the air and did not move or rise from her seat.

"Stop," Sansa ordered them. She stared hard at Yara. "What do you mean _kill me_? Why me?"

"Not just you, Your Grace. All of them. Everyone on the Great Council, and the king too." Brianne yanked the smaller woman from her chair and shoved her against the wall. Yara gasped but did not resist. "He means to send assassins—the greatest in the world to murder each and every one of you. They are plotting and planning as we speak. When it's done the kingdoms will be in chaos and the North will be vulnerable again."

Tyrion moved around the table and stood in front of Yara. She looked down at him as he pierced her with a murderous look. "How do you know this?" he spat at her. "How do we know this isn't a diversion?"

"Your Grace," Yara said directly to Sansa, struggling under Brianne's hand, "my brother, Theon fought for your family in the war against the dead. He gave his life for your brother. I would not dishonor his memory by conspiring against you."

The mention of Theon made Sansa's heart soften, but her eyes stayed steely as ever. "To speak your brother's name will only invite me to recall how easy it is for members of your family to betray members of mine." She thought of him at the end: just as much wolf as he was kraken. "Tell me how you've come to know this plot."

Yara nodded. "One of them got greedy—they came after me as well—that wasn't part of the plan. To overthrow me, Joron has to pay the Iron Price—he must kill me himself. But this little freelancer didn't understand that." Yara pointed to her neck and Brianne loosened her grip slightly. Yara pulled the strings on her shirt and pulled it aside to reveal a fresh gash cutting across her chest just below her throat. "I took his secrets before I served him to the Drowned God."

Tyrion shook his head. Sansa could see in his face that he didn't trust this woman, but he wasn't willing to bet Sansa's life on it. "We can have him arrested. We can send some men to ride for Pyke and put the little bastard in chains."

"You could," said Yara, "if you can find him. But the contracts have already been paid—going after Joron right now won't save any of them."

"Why did you come here then?" Sansa asked. "Warning me won't save you."

"Maybe not," Yara said, "But if my people are so easily swayed—I can't return to Pyke. If it isn't him it will be some other bastard, cousin, uncle. The Old Ways never let a woman rule the Iron Islands—they never will again."

Brianne turned to Sansa, "Let us lock her up, Your Grace."

"No," Tyrion said. "She's committed no crime that we can tell. We should all stay together. Let's keep her close, but not betray that their plot has been discovered until we can root out this would be assassin. If she speaks true, they will come for Sansa first—as an independent kingdom the North does not benefit from the king's peace; they'll think the queen alone in the world." Yara and Sansa exchanged a look, and then Sansa nodded her acquiescence.

"Your Grace, you need protection at all times," Brianne said. "Permit me to stay with you in the night."

"Thank you, Lady Brianne. I accept," Sansa noted a relieved glace between Tyrion and Brianne. To Tyrion she said, "You must write to Bran and give him a warning at least—"

"Raven's can be intercepted, my queen. I will reach His Grace another way." And with that he spun to the door, his cloak whipping behind him.

* * *

The castle was in nervous spirits; though, for several days, the peace was not disturbed, and when it was, it was not an assassin who had them up in arms—Quintyn Martell, the Prince of Dorne, had arrived.

Curiously, just before the Prince's arrival, Tyrion had disappeared from Winterfell without a word as to where he was going or when he thought to return. _Perhaps they are the same person,_ Sansa mused. Her brilliant dwarf in the body of the Dornish Prince. She smiled at the thought. _A perfect sort of man. _But the amusement did not last. The truth was, Tyrion's sudden departure left Sansa feeling hallow. Even though they had not spoken in confidence since the first day of his arrival some weeks ago, even though they had scarcely been alone, and even though he'd set her aside, and proclaimed to her that, no he did not, could not, imagine a world in which he might love her—Sansa halted her thoughts. _Be fair lady—he did not say those words._

As his presence gave her comfort, his absence made her feel anxious. But he did not feel the same for her, and it was not for her to force the matter.

The prince, on the other hand, doted on her. That first day he was all easy flirtation and presented her with gifts of Dornish wine, spices and gems. She received his attentions well enough, but the prince was obviously used to a more enthusiastic sort of woman, and her tempered response was not lost on him.

"My lady," he whispered to her as they sat together in the evening the day after his arrival in front of a grand fireplace in her outer quarters with servants and Lady Brianne keeping close.

"You are addressing a Queen, sir," Lady Brianne spoke from the corner of the room, "the proper address in 'Your Grace.'"

The Prince grinned, "Of course. Your Grace, are you quite well?"

Sansa smiled politely, "There is no need for us to be formal here, Lady Brianne. And thank you, sir—I am well. You have met us at a tense time here I am afraid."

"Ah, yes," Quintyn said, his eyes flashing something akin to arousal, "There is to be a murderer in our mists, yes?—very exciting!"

"Exciting?" came a voice from behind them. A servant boy the Prince had brought filled their cups with wine and Sansa and Quintyn turned to the door. Tyrion strode in and shut the door behind him. "You find a plot to assassinate the queen…exciting?"

"Lord Tyrion—" Sansa smiled at him. She was so relieved to see him, she nearly leapt from her chair and flung herself into his arms. She did not—but the impulse was there.

Tyrion's eyes connected with hers and then flitted to her hands resting in her lap. "Your Grace." He took a deep bow and then turned to the Prince and gave a far more stunted nod before motioning for the servant to pour him a cup as well.

"I find the prospect of killing this man and presenting his head to my lady to be very exciting, yes." The prince smiled. "You are the Imp? I remember you—Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King?"

Tyrion threw back his wine and took a much more theatric bow this time, "At your service."

Sansa bristled at the nickname, but made no move to intervene—Tyrion did not need her protection. Instead she said, "Are you going to tell me where you've been these many days?"

Tyrion shook his head. "Not as yet—I just came to tell you that the King is well and security has been tightened around King's Landing." Both Sansa and Brianne looked relieved, but she simply gave a curt nod.

"Then if that is all, you have told me and so now you must excuse me, my lord. The prince and I would speak in private." Sansa said, dismissing him.

Tyrion's eyes were pained and in the low candlelight a shadow passed over his face that looked almost torturous. But he nodded at her, "As you wish." He shrunk from the room, tossing a distressed look at Brianne on his way out and closed the door behind him. Though, Sansa noticed, not all the way closed.

The prince laughed. "Your half-man seems sullen," he jabbed.

_He's not mine_, Sansa thought. But what she said was, "Lord Tyrion is a respected member of King Bran's council and he is a welcomed guest in my home. I'll not have him mocked."

Quintyn shrugged, "As you wish, my lady. Anyway, we have more pleasant things to discuss, do we not?"

Sansa pulled herself together enough to smile at him. "It pleases me that you came here. I know the north's proposition might seem odd."

"Not at all—it is very strategic—very smart. If your lords are going to insist you marry, this would be a very beneficial match for both of us." Sansa smiled into her lap. "And," the prince continued, "if it is your aim to never see or speak to your husband for the whole of your marriage, you could not have selected someone further from you in all of Westeros."

At this she looked up at him and met his eyes, to find him smiling down at her. "My lord—"

He waved her off. "Political marriages are difficult I know—and I know you know," he nodded to the door where Tyrion had last been standing. "My countrymen have also been insisting I make a good match. They are _very_ much in favor of this match with you, my lady. But I fear you may not like my terms."

They were negotiating now—Sansa smiled, for she knew she could make short work of this prince if she cared to. She stood up and glanced at Brianne momentarily before crossing over to the chamber door and closing it tight, and then returned to Quintyn's side. "What are your terms then?"

"First," he said, "you should know that I plan to marry for love—or the possibility of love—or not at all." Sansa caught her breath. She was not expecting to hear that, as it was quite the opposite of her goals for any marriage pact. "Second, you should know that I am the last son of the Martell's—our family has ruled Dorne for centuries. Longer than the seven kingdoms, longer than the iron throne. If we were to marry we rule the North and Dorne together, but our sons and daughters will be Martells and they will live in Dorne." Sansa leaned back in her chair and directed her eyes to the ground. "That seems a big ask to you, but it is nothing outside of tradition."

Sansa nodded. "There is precedent," she said, "in Dorne and in the north, for children to keep their mother's family name and live in her family home. Look at your own history, look to the Mormonts of Bear Island."

"When the man is low-born perhaps," The Prince flashed her a smile. "You are talking to a Prince."

"And you are talking to a Queen, my lord." Sansa wasn't shaken, but Quintyn realized his folly as soon as he'd said it. "My family is every bit as ancient and noble as yours. And every bit as in danger of sliding into nothingness," she said to him.

He nodded, his face suddenly solemn, acknowledging that perhaps their interests were not as aligned as he'd hoped. "That is a shame," he said. "I always wondered what it would be like to bed a queen."

"It would have been a delight no doubt," Sansa smiled. "If it pleases you, my lord," she looked up at Brianne but the other woman was trying hard not to intrude. "I fear you are still in danger—even if, or perhaps especially if, you leave here. I would have you stay on for a little bit longer—to keep the farce going until it is safe again."

"Your Grace, if safety is what you seek, I fear that is the farce," he smiled and stood, "But yes. I will stay and play this game. It will be a great gift to my king to keep his sister safe and kill his enemies." He reached a hand out to her, which she tentatively accepted and he pulled her to her feet. "Speaking of," he said, "I have a final gift for you as well." He released her hand and reached into his belt pulling a sheathed knife from it. Brianne leapt forward but the prince held up a hand. "There is no need for that my lady, as he turned the hilt over in is fingers and pressed it into Sansa's hands. She stared at the thing, smaller than a dagger, but larger than a kitchen knife, the hilt was pearl and the blade simple, but perilously sharp. "If anyone attacks you in the night, and your sword is not at the ready," he nodded at Brianne, and took her hand with the knife still in it and mimicked a slice up his own torso, "then you will open them from balls to brain. Do not be afraid."


	7. Chapter 7: Fall, Tyrion

**Chapter 7: Fall ~ Tyrion**

Tyrion lay in his bed staring at the ceiling. Candles burned all around him but the hour was late and the dark outside was intrusive. He strained to hear anything that might be outside of the norm. The castle was mostly quiet, but there was some chatter in the courtyard and occasionally the dogs would bark.

Sansa's quarters were above him and he strained to hear her most of all. Was she in danger? Was she in bed with the prince? Tyrion couldn't decide which would be worse. _Don't be ridiculous,_ he thought._ They are not married yet. _

_Ah but she dismisses you quick enough when they are alone together, doesn't she? She asked you if you loved her, and how did you respond? What did you expect, dwarf? _

He grit his teeth and closed his eyes. He imagined her in her bed with the prince, their bodies naked, tangled together. He could scarcely breathe. He imagined the prince drinking her in, his hands all over her. He let the images play, and to his horror, Tyrion felt his cock stiffen.

_What a stupid little shit you are. _Tyrion pushed himself off the bed and swung open the shutters to his window. The cool summer air hit his face and he felt more awake. Tyrion tried to imagine what their wedding night might have been like if Sansa had not recoiled when he touched her—if he did not look in her eyes and see revulsion…or pity. Were he taller, were he not the scared and misshapen thing he was when they married, would she have wanted him? Would she have let him love her?

Sansa had instructed Tyrion to tell Bran that she would be wed come the autumn. Tyrion begged Bran to let him return to the capitol, but Bran ordered him to stay put.

_-You are no craven. Be brave and await my arrival – _the king had written. And so here he was, torturing himself night and day and worrying for a woman who already had more protectors than she knew what to do with, a Dornish prince who had charmed every man, woman and child in Winterfell into loving him, and the longer they waited for these so-called assassins to show themselves the more Sansa believed that they would never come.

Tyrion gave up on sleep and poured himself a glass of wine. And when that was gone he poured another. And when that was gone he pulled on his pants and threw a shirt over his under-clothes and went down to the great hall in search of yet another.

He froze when he heard the prince's hearty laugh. Sansa laughed as well. _No, _Tyrion thought_. Not worth it_. He turned to make his retreat, but it was too late and her sweet voice stopped him.

"Tyrion?" Sansa had spotted him, and she'd risen from the table to beckon him over. Brianne was with them, as was Yara.

"Forgive me," he said averting his eyes. "I was looking for more wine, and—"

"Join us," she said. "We have plenty."

"Did you know," Quintyn said, pouring Tyrion a glass, "That my lady does not like the taste of wine?"

"I did know that was true at one time," Tyrion said, "Only when she had too." His eyes touched Sansa's and then flitted away.

She smiled at him, thoughtful, and then took a cup for herself. "I have a game," she said looking around the table. Then to Tyrion. "I am going to make a statement about you, if I'm right you drink, if I'm wrong, I drink." Tyrion's mouth dropped. _No._

"Fun," said the Prince and poured everyone another round. Brianne quietly excused herself and Tyrion tried as well, but Sansa stopped him.

"Are you not well?"

"I'm very well, Your Grace, I just—"

"Then I would have you stay." Tyrion swallowed and nodded. _You're no craven. Be brave._ He took a seat directly across from Sansa, Yara to his side and the Prince across from her.

"You," she pointed at Tyrion, "Don't like him." She pointed at Quintyn.

Tyrion gave them both a half-smile and took a drink of his wine, which, by this point, was making him bold. "Don't be offended, my lord. I'd dislike anyone engaged to her," The prince laughed and he and Sansa shared a look.

Tyrion refilled his cup. "You," he said to Sansa, "were repulsed by me when we were married." Sansa took a drink and Tyrion nodded, his suspicions confirmed.

"Yes, I disliked you," she said, "partly because you were a dwarf. Mostly because you were a Lannister."

"Even now I repulse you," he said, his voice taking on a valiant cadence. "Come, drink. I know it's true. Am I not still a dwarf? And my name is still Lannister."

Sansa looked him over. "I cannot argue, my lord. Your name is still Lannister, and you are a dwarf now as you've always been." He nodded again, _pity it was then_. "Drink," she commanded him.

Tyrion looked up at her and tilted his head, his eyes pained. "No lying," he said. She pointed at his cup. "Why?"

Sansa shrugged, "I can't say for sure, but I think it's because you've grown a beard." The prince laughed and Yara refilled both of their glasses.

Yara took her turn to the prince. "You've never made love to a noblewoman," she said. The prince grinned at her, but took a drink.

"Yet," he said.

"And you," Yara said, this time to Sansa, "have never made love to anyone."

The prince laughed at this. "The queen is a widow twice married. And I'm certain the second was more productive in that capacity than the first." Sansa looked at him and then took her cup and drank. Tyrion was stricken. Quintyn said, "Am I wrong? Did you not consummate any of your marriages?"

"Lord Bolton consummated," Sansa said flatly. "I did not." Tyrion burned inside and wondered if she raged as he did, but she betrayed nothing.

"Most women are not enthusiastic when their husbands first bed them, but they learn to endure it in time. If their husbands are decent lovers, they will more than endure it," Prince Quintyn smirked at Yara and she back at him.

Tyrion narrowed his brow and looked between Sansa and the prince. Would she hold her tongue at that, really? He refilled her glass. "You two—" he wagged his finger between them, "are not really engaged."

Sansa's eyes widened, and she looked over at the prince who laughed. He raised his glass and took a drink. Sansa nodded and did the same.

"Fascinating," Tyrion said.

* * *

An hour later, Tyrion had ahold of Sansa's arm as he guided her up the stairs, Brianne a short distance behind them. They were both quite drunk by this point, and Sansa had to brace herself on his shoulder to keep from tumbling over.

"You've become a player, my love." Tyrion said to her as they moved down a long hallway toward a large wooden door at the end leading into his library. "But I'm not quite sure I understand why you feel the need to play me."

"You're quite fun to play, my lord." They reached the door and Sansa turned back to Brianne. "It's alright, Brianne. Lord Tyrion will do me no harm."

Brianne nodded and opened the door for them. "I know he won't, Your Grace."

Once inside, Sansa threw another log on his fire and turned to find him staring at her. "Be serious, Sansa. I need to know. You provoked me into coming to Winterfell. Why? Why keep me here? How can you say you were disgusted with me then and claim you're not now?"

"I grew up," she said simply. "I came to see my enemies not just in Lannister red. There was evil in those who claimed to be my rescuers, in those who'd call me their blood and…even my northmen. And I realized that you weren't my enemy—you never were. You were more chivalrous, braver and more knightly than anyone I'd ever known. Our marriage was meant to be a sham, but you took our vows more seriously than I could have back then."

"I placed my cloak upon your shoulders and vowed to protect you," he said sadly. "Of all my failings, my lady, this was the worst."

"You gave me strength," she said. "When Joffery beat me, when my brother and mother were killed," She reached for his hand. "When we were in the crypts and thought that moment might be our last, you gave me the strength to keep fighting, and to learn to protect myself. That has meant more to me than you could ever know." Tyrion put his hand over her's. He was so touched by this, he couldn't find words, so he leaned in to her and brushed her lips with his. She touched his face, let her fingers trace the line of scar tissue on his cheek. "I realized then that I wanted to give us another chance. To see if I could do better by you. But, before, when you said that love did not work for you…"

"No, Sansa…" he whispered to her.

"Make me understand," she pleaded. "I know you love me, so just tell me."

"You don't want to do this," he said to her. It had been he who reached for her. He invited this. She was giving him a chance to explain himself—to make her understand—he saw his love, not as a gift, but as a sword: a weapon wielded to cut down the objects of his desires. His love was not a thing to be coveted by anyone, for it would only bring them pain, and torment and death.

But still she pushed. "You told me about your first wife—you mentioned her I mean, but we never really spoke of her. Is that who you meant when you said you'd been in love before and it didn't work out?" Tyrion nodded and his eyes grew sad. "Littlefinger told me that when you tired of her you sold her to your father's guards and let them all rape her, one after the other."

Tyrion didn't react or lift his eyes to look at her, but he whispered in short stops, "Do…you think that sounds like something I would do?"

"No."

"No." Tyrion was stricken. "I loved her. And I really believe, even now, that she loved me too. Not even the most accomplished whore could act that well." Tears were in his eyes and he rolled his head. He stepped away and poured himself another glass of wine. "I looked for her. For years I searched, but she was gone. I would not be surprised if my lord father had her murdered when he was done dolling out our lesson."

Sansa reached for him, but he shook her off, downing the wine in one messy swallow and filling the glass again. "And then there was Shae. Did Littlefinger tell you about Shae?"

Sansa nodded, remembering how protective her handmaiden was of her, and how indignant she was with Tyrion. It should have struck her as strange, but at the time she didn't know any better. And to be honest, she didn't care. So long as he wasn't sharing her bed, she didn't really care where he found his relief. "He told me that you were lovers."

"Lovers?" Tyrion laughed. "Yes, we were lovers. She was a whore, bought and paid for, but I didn't care. And she…she was a very good actor. He never told you what happened to her?" Sansa shook her head. "No, well why would he? No one weeps for whores."

Tyrion stood up and walked over to the great window overlooking the Godswood and draped himself over the window ledge. When he spoke, he was no longer looking at Sansa, but somewhere far off into the night air. "She wanted us to run away together, but I didn't want to leave. When it got too dangerous for her in King's Landing, I tried to send her away but she refused to leave on her own, so I hurt her. I told her I couldn't be in love with her; I called her a whore and told her I was done with her, that I didn't want her anymore. That I wanted you instead." Tyrion sunk lower on the rafter and laid his cheek against the windowpane. "When she stood in front of the court and told them all that you and I conspired to kill Joffery, she knew it would mean a death sentence for me. She didn't care. She lied and lied—with just enough hurtful truths sprinkled in to really get them laughing." He turned to her, "I'm used to being laughed at, as you well know, but this was not the same. And when I found her, in _his_ bed…when she called him _my lion_, when she rolled over—I don't think I meant for her to die. I can't say for sure now, but…"

Tyrion grimaced and closed his eyes and turned back to the window. Sansa held her breath as he told his story, her eyes pooling with tears. "She went for a knife and I fought her, and the more she fought me the more I hated her, and the more I wanted to rip her apart." He shook his head his voice wet with disgust. "She knocked me to the ground and tried to scream but I had her neck wrapped in a chain made of golden hands and I wrapped my fingers in it and pulled to silence her. And it did. So effectively in fact that I kept on pulling. I pulled and she fought and I pulled and she fought until she was no longer fighting and I was silently screaming on the floor—I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Tyrion slid to the ground now and stared down at his murderous hands. The tears came and he did not fight them back. Sansa was at his side and he let her hold him.

"Tyrion, I didn't know—"

"No," he said as he lay in her arms, "Why would you? My father always drilled into us that family was all that mattered. That the Lannister name, our position and our future was everything. Everything he did was in service to our family. But it was a lie, and this name is cursed." Sansa shushed him and held him for so long that she wondered if he had fallen asleep in her arms, but just as she thought to open her mouth and say his name, he squeezed her arm and shivered.

"And then there was Daenerys," Sansa froze. "Before I met her I never believed in anything. Not the gods or fate or magic. And then I saw her, and how much her people loved her and that changed everything for me. I believed in her; that she could make the world better. But I could not see her clearly. I couldn't see what she had inside of her." He looked up a Sansa. "You saw her. You tried to tell me, but I was blind to it…and now she is dead too."

Sansa thought for a moment as she held him. "Tyrion, your sister once told me that your weakness was that you wanted to be loved. She called it your disease."

"Another evil cunt dead because of me," Tyrion muttered.

"We want the same thing, My Lord…" Tyrion wiped his face and shifted away from her until they sat on the floor facing one another and he looked at her quizzically, their hands still interlocked. "To be loved for who we are," she said. "Not because of gold, and not because of a family name or our claim to a great house. But for ourselves."

"Sansa—" was the last thing Tyrion said before everything went dark.


	8. Chapter 8: Fall, Sansa

**Author's note: This is the final installment in this story. I hope you enjoyed, but do let me know what you think. **

* * *

**Chapter 8: Fall ~ Sansa**

Sansa screamed as a figure came from the shadows and dealt Tyrion a blow to his head. He slumped and Sansa leapt toward him, but the figure caught her waist and threw her back. She hit a bookcase and fell to the ground.

"I thought I'd never catch you alone," the figure said. "I'd almost given up." Sansa saw the flash of a blade and she kicked, scooting herself away. She fussed in her skirts searching for the knife Quintyn had given her, but the figure was already on top of her.

"Brianne!" She screamed, and the figure laughed.

"She's sleeping right now," it said pulling Sansa to her feet. Tyrion moaned on the ground and tried to push himself to his feet. He saw Sansa tangled up with the figure and the figure raise his blade. Tyrion lunged with everything in him, crashing into the figure and knocking them both to the floor. They rolled away and Tyrion wobbled on his feet. He scanned the room for anything that could be used as a weapon, but the figure grabbed him and shoved him into a set of bookcases and raised the club over his head. Sansa found the hilt of her knife and yelled as she blindly ran toward the figure, running the blade through into it's shoulder. The figure grunted and brought the club down unto Tyrion's brow. The figure grabbed Sansa, spewing angry sounding words in a language Sansa did not understand. It spun her around so that she was facing away from him, and they both came face-to-face with another figure—one of Quintyn's servants. The figure holding onto Sansa froze, narrowing it's gaze at the servant girl. "Valar Morghulis," the figure said.

The servant tipped two fingers to her head with a slight bow. "Valar dohaeris," she said and then before Sansa or the figure could react, produced a blade and threw it, whizzing just passed Sansa's head, striking the figure between the eyes. Blood poured forth from the figure's had and mouth, and with a final sputter, the figure dropped, pulling Sansa to the ground.

Sansa cried out and struggled to free herself from the heavy wait of the assassin atop her. When she was finally freed, Sansa scrambled to where Tyrion still lie unconscious on the floor and looked up at the servant girl. "Get away from me!" Sansa yelled and moved close to Tyrion shaking his shoulder.

The servant girl laughed and tugged at the corner of her face. The face came off and Arya stood in the servant girl's stead. She smiled at Sansa gaping on the floor as Tyrion moaned and rolled over, a small bit of blood dotting the corner of his forehead. Sansa looked between Arya and Tyrion—disbelief and relief all flooding her face. Tyrion pushed himself to his knees and took ahold of Sansa's face with shaking hands, studying her for injuries. Sansa had been holding her breath, but now collapsed onto Tyrion's shoulder. He turned to Arya, "Took you long enough."

Arya tossed the mask on the floor near him. "I've been here for weeks," she said, "I came as soon as you sent for me."

Tyrion looked toward the door and his eyes grew wide. "You have to get to the prince!" he shouted. "We will find Brianne, now go!"

Arya surveyed the room, her eyes eventually resting on her sister slumped against Tyrion, her face buried in the collar of his shirt. "Sansa?" Arya said.

"I'm fine," Sansa responded, breathless, "you need to hurry." Arya nodded and sprinted toward the door. Tyrion took Sansa's face in his hands again and pulled her up to look at him. He opened his mouth to speak, and found himself again without words. "I know," she whispered and pulled his face down on hers, her lips connecting with his, her hunger enveloping him. He only hesitated for a moment before he too seized her. His fingers went into her hair and his mouth met hers with a fury to rival her own. He pulled away slightly and placed a flutter of kisses over her eyes, her brow, her cheeks and back to her lips.

"Be my wife," Tyrion whispered. "Let me be your husband. Everything you have here is yours to keep, I only want you."

"And I only want you."

* * *

Within weeks, Winterfell was in chaos. Arya had left immediately after murdering the two cut-throats who'd come to kill Sansa and Prince Quintyn. She'd find the others, she said, and dispatch them the same way. "You'll return for the wedding?" Sansa asked, more a command than a question. Arya hugged her sister—a glimpse of affection that was rare for her, but honest in that moment. She would try.

Shortly thereafter the king had arrived from the capitol and showed reverence for his sister, the Queen in the North and her betrothed. A large crowd gathered in the great hall to celebrate Bran's return and what they thought was to be Sansa's impending marriage to Quintyn Martell. That is until the prince rose a glass, "My best wishes to the Queen in the North. My her marriage be full of love, her halls warm and full of laugher, and her life long and full of adventure!" There were cheers among the court and confused chatter, and then the prince said, "Will we call you Lady Lannister now?"

The court's eyes all turned to Tyrion, and then erupted into angry shouts.

"My lords, my ladies," Sansa tried to quiet them. "I want the North to be prosperous—I will continue to fight to make it so. But I marry for love, not prosperity. My lord does not conspire to rule the north. He only wants to right his wrongs and serve our kingdoms and me as his wife."

The crowd jeered, and one said, "Your Lannister lord's home is at Casterly Rock; what will become of Winterfell?"

Sansa and Tyrion shared an uncomfortable glance and then she said, "a Stark will always be Lady of Winterfell. As your queen, you are just going to have to trust me." More chatter and Tyrion looked on, his brows drawn together and fingers to his lips.

"The Lannisters should all be dead!" Tyrion said finally, loud enough to quiet the room. "After me they will be. That castle was all I ever wanted. It was my father's pride and I wanted him to give it to me and tell me that I was his son," his face grew grim. "I don't want it anymore." To Sansa he said, "Casterly Rock will be a gift to our firstborn child, whose name will be Stark." She smiled at him and touched the side of his face. He placed a hand over hers and then his eyes searched hers for fear or doubt and found none there. "Let me kill the last Lannister once and for all," he said. "If it pleases my queen—we will marry and my name too will be Stark—from this day until my last day."

The court was stunned to silence. Then slowly a clap, and another and another.

* * *

And two nights later, King Bran led them to the godswood and stood with Tyrion at the foot of the weirwood heart tree at its center. Meera Reed stood nearby, her smile warmer than it had been in years. Bran had asked her to accompany him back to King's Landing. He looked her in the eyes when he said it and she believed, were it true or not, that Brandon Stark was alive.

Lanterns dotted the woods all around them, lighting the night like tethered fireflies. Tyrion was wrapped in a thick velvet cloak of smoky blues, silvers and cremes with a direwolf pattern stitched across the back—Sansa had made this for him to wear today. The crowd parted and Sansa stepped to the circle.

"Who comes before the Old Gods?" Bran asked.

"Sansa Stark," she answered, "a woman grown, trueborn and noble, comes to beg the blessing of the gods to marry."

"And who comes to claim her?" Bran asked.

Tyrion stepped forward, "I do."

Bran looked to Sansa, "Will you take this man?"

"I take this man," she whispered.

"Then kneel," Bran instructed them, and they both fell to their knees in the wet snow. To Tyrion, Bran said, "You knelt before me as Tyrion Lannister. Arise as Tyrion Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Casterly Rock and Consort to the Queen in the North."

Tyrion closed his eyes and smiled. He stood and removed him cloak, and draped it over Sansa's shoulders, and then took her hand and helped her to stand.

"You belong to her now," Bran said, and then to Sansa, "And you belong to him."

* * *

Sansa poured Tyrion a glass of wine and pulled the cloak off of her shoulders and then pulled the ribbon holding her tight braid together and let her hair fall. Tyrion, enraptured, stared at her. They were dressed in complementing Stark colors, and as her beautiful auburn hair scattered across the dark blue of her dress and over her long neck and shoulders, down to her back, Tyrion held his breath. He was suddenly nervous.

"I should tell you…I haven't been with a woman for…a long time," Tyrion said. Embarrassed he directed his eyes to the floor.

"You're impatient?" She asked him.

"Oh, no…I mean…yes, but no that's not what I meant. I meant that if I'm…if I seem overly excitable…there is a reason."

Sansa laughed, "I like that you get excited," she said. "I hope that _I _am the reason." She handed him the wine goblet.

"Without a doubt," he said. "And interestingly enough," he sloshed some wine on his hand before setting it aside on the table, "I think I'd like to be sober for this. Are you nervous?"

By way of reply, Sansa took his hand in hers and licked his fingers where the wine had spilled. Tyrion shook his head at her in disbelief. "No one has ever made love to you like I will, wife. I'm going to see that you know what it's like to sing before this night is over," he said as he pulled her into their marriage bed.


End file.
